


Alien Nation

by Malivrag



Category: Deep Purple (Band), Music RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 17:30:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10576071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malivrag/pseuds/Malivrag
Summary: Mark IV era. David watches his bandmates by the hotel pool, and ponders on how they've ended up like this.





	

The sunlight pierced his eyes, almost driving David Coverdale back inside the stuffy hotel. By all rights, he should go up to his room, shave, and nurse his voice. It was two o' clock in the afternoon, and David was a twenty-four year old rock star with a glass of brandy in one hand, staggering out, shirtless, shoeless, and unshaven, into the pool area. Some hotel patrons eyed him warily as they skittered past. He swayed a bit, more dazzled by the bright lights than the remnants of his hangover.

This hotel's lobby was adorned with high French doors that gave a fabulous view of the pool. Inside the lobby, basking in the air conditioning, were two of David's Deep Purple bandmates: Jon Lord and Ian Paice. They were sitting on a very ugly couch, looking like a couple of well-meaning uncles on holiday. On either side of them sat their girlfriends, as perfectly alike as two pearls.

The other hotel guests stood, their breaths painting little clouds onto those French doors, gawking at the spectacle by the pool. Not at David -- his other two bandmates. Glenn Hughes and Tommy Bolin, the bassist and guitarist, sprawled out together on a chaise by the pool. The sight of them brought David up short, and he joined the gawkers for a minute.

Glenn and Tommy were both in their trunks, their long hair still damp from the pool. Tommy's skin was kissed brown by the sun; Glenn's shoulders had the beginning of a burn. They were lost in each other, legs entangled, nuzzling faces, Glenn's hand tenderly caressing the curve of Tommy's jaw. David looked at them, and felt a strange hollow feeling in his chest, just beneath his breastbone. It felt a little like fear and a little like envy, but he had no name to put to it.

Some other hotel patrons walked out of the pool area; David could see the looks of dismay and anger on their pinched faces. For a moment, he had a mad desire to fling his drink at them. Who were they? Who gave them the right? These plain, boring people, as colorless as mashed potatoes. They would never have an inkling of what Glenn and Tommy had, sleek and tumbling together like wild creatures.

Well, it didn't matter, David reminded himself. None of their opinions mattered. All these people -- they'd be buying their tickets tonight to come see Deep Purple. Everyone who looked down on David because he wasn't Ian Gillan, or down on Tommy Bolin because he wasn't Ritchie Blackmore, they'd all be staring up at them from the audience tonight. Yes, they would. David sank into a chair next to Glenn and Tommy, lost in his imaginings. He sat his glass of brandy down next to him. The frayed ends of his jeans were now wet and rubbing against his ankles painfully, but David was too lost in thought to care. All these plain people, they'd all be staring up, longing for an ember of that fire that David would call down from heaven.

You'll never be Ian Gillan. And he'll never be Ritchie Blackmore. Well, Ian Gillan and Ritchie Blackmore walked out on all you people. So what then?

He found himself watching Ian Paice and Jon Lord through the French doors again. They were looking at him and Glenn and Tommy, speaking in low tones to one another. He imagined that they were sighing and saying "Can you believe..." and "I never..." Well, let them. Jon's gregarious uncle routine was wearing a bit thin these days, and all Ian cared about anymore was balancing his ledgers. Columns of numbers, going up one and down the other, making them come out right. Money, money, money.

David let his head loll back. Wet kissing sounds caught his attention, and he turned his head a bit to see that Tommy and Glenn had switched positions. Now Glenn was splayed on out his back, Tommy practically on top of him, gazing down at him in glassy-eyed adoration between long, slow, wet kisses. These days, it seemed like Tommy was always glassy-eyed. As David watched, Tommy lowered his head and flicked his tongue across Glenn's erect nipple; Glenn squealed softly.

That strange feeling returned to David's chest, along with a jolt of paranoia. Suppose someone took a photograph of them? Suppose this got into the papers?

Well, what if it did? What of it? David felt beside him for his glass of brandy and gulped it down. Perhaps he's drinking too much these days... now there's no more Ritchie to terrorize them. David buried his face in his hands under the pretense of shielding his eyes from the sun. That strange emotion had spread from his core, threatening to spill over, send tears cascading down his cheeks. He breathed deeply, trying to hold on.

Ritchie. That cunt! He walked out on them. He left Deep Purple behind. No, David didn't care about him anymore, he didn't care that the fans still called his name. Fuckin' Ritchie Blackmore.

One day, David vowed to himself, one day he would have a stage all to himself, so high that everyone would look up to him and no one, no one, would ever look down on him again.


End file.
